


uldren sov lives

by 49percentchanceofbees



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Redemption, Solitary Confinement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23812747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/49percentchanceofbees/pseuds/49percentchanceofbees
Summary: Now what was left of him? What was he supposed to do now? He could just curl up and die, he supposed; that seemed like the most convenient result for everyone. But he’d be damned if he was going to make things easy for Petra or her guardian friends.He had survived the Kings -- triumphed over them. He had escaped the Prison of Elders. He’d make it through this too. AndMara still needed him.Beatrice-4 has never killed a neohuman and she's not going to start now.
Relationships: Female Guardian & Uldren Sov, Guardian & Uldren Sov
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Featuring my beloved personal guardian, Beatrice-4, a rather idiosyncratic exo warlock.

Uldren closed his eyes as the guardian raised Cayde-6’s gun, despair heavy in his chest. Almost as heavy as the bullet about to perforate it, he imagined. So this was it. No sister, no homecoming, just a bullet as he lay on the floor, unable to even stand, put down like an animal. (The same fate he’d given Cayde. Poetic, he had to admit.)

A gunshot rang out, or maybe two at the exact same moment, and Uldren couldn’t help flinching in the bare instant before bullets ripped open his flesh and crunched through bone, shredding heart and lungs, turning his body into nothing but bloody meat -- except they didn’t. Instead there came a clatter of metal and stone, and Petra cried out.

Uldren opened his eyes. Petra’s gun bounced onto the ground several feet from her, while the guardian lowered her own weapon, pointed not at Uldren but at Petra -- she had shot the gun out of Petra’s hand, Uldren realized. She must have felt very sure of her aim; a misplaced inch, and Petra could have lost the hand.

For a second Petra stared at Uldren as if she thought  _ he _ had done this somehow. He looked back at her, equally baffled, almost a moment of kinship in their shared confusion. Then she turned to the actual guilty party, wide-eyed.

“What -- ” She couldn’t even form the question, just shaking her head.

The guardian shook her head as well, hanging Cayde’s gun from her belt. Her ghost spoke: “That’s … not how I would have done it, but I’m glad she did. We can’t shoot him. It’s not right.”

“ _ Not right _ ?” Petra’s face quickly changed from shock to snarl. “He killed Cayde, he killed dozens of our people …”

“It doesn’t matter what he’s done,” the ghost said. “We don’t kill defenseless prisoners. That’s not who we are.”

Petra’s face twisted, and she turned towards her gun. “Maybe it’s not who  _ you _ are.”

The guardian actually moved forward and grabbed Petra’s arm, shaking her head vehemently. Petra looked at her with disgust, perhaps even more of it than she’d aimed at Uldren.

“You would  _ defend  _ him? Everyone he’s hurt, everyone he  _ will _ hurt if he lives -- they’ll lay that debt at your door. What will you tell the families of those he’s killed? What will you tell your Vanguard? Ikora Rey?”

The guardian twitched at that, her head swiveling slightly, but she didn’t release Petra. Uldren felt his own pang of guilt at the thought of explaining his actions to grieving mothers. His single-minded focus on Mara was suddenly inadequate justification in the light of how far he’d strayed -- it had all been for nothing in the end, or worse than nothing, and that made a world of difference.

“If you go through with this,” Petra hissed, “Cayde’s blood is on your hands.”

(Cayde-6. It all came down to him, didn’t it? As if the dozens of Awoken Uldren had murdered meant nothing, because they weren’t  _ guardians _ . Indiscriminate loathing blossomed in Uldren’s chest: for Cayde, for Petra, for Cayde’s avenger, for himself.)

Though the guardian let go, she still stood between Petra and her gun, gesturing. Her ghost said, its tone slow and even, “We’re exos. We don’t have blood.”

With a growl of frustration, Petra turned away. The ghost added, “She’s right. He  _ was  _ just chewed up and spat out by a giant eyeball. That’s enough punishment for anyone for one day.”

Uldren couldn’t help laughing, a hoarse and broken laugh. Petra glanced back to glare at him.

“If you do this,” Petra said, facing away again, “it’s on your head. He’s your problem; you can figure out what to do with him. As far as I’m concerned, as far as the Reef is concerned, Uldren Sov is dead.”

Something in Uldren’s chest twinged at that, but why? He’d been dead to the Reef for three years.

The guardian nodded, behind Petra’s back, and her ghost said, “OK.”

Petra turned back, meeting the guardian’s eyes. Whatever she found there didn’t seem to satisfy her, but she sighed. “You’re responsible for him, then. And I have to go clean up his mess.”

The guardian nodded again, and this time she let Petra go get her gun. Petra looked at Uldren as she straightened from picking it up, and for a moment he thought she’d just shoot him anyway. But instead she went back to the guardian. “This is for you. Figure out how to use it, and I’ll see you again.”

Uldren couldn’t see what Petra handed over, and he had bigger worries anyway, as Petra walked away shaking her head and the guardian turned her attention to him. Again, he tried and failed to get to his feet as she approached. She looked at him for a moment, exo face blank, and then bent down and offered him a hand.

He ignored it. But his limbs kept collapsing out from under him. The guardian watched him struggle for a moment, impassive, and then she grabbed him by the collar and hauled him to his feet. When she set him on them, his knees buckled; he couldn’t stop himself from instinctively reaching for her to keep from falling. She caught him by the shoulders as her ghost swooped around them, scanning him. With a snarl, Uldren swatted at it, and the guardian grabbed his wrist and spun him around, yanking his arms behind his back. He made feeble attempts to escape as she tied his wrists behind him; he could feel that the knot was weak, but so was he, so it’d hold him.

“Are you so afraid of me,” he said, bitter amusement in his voice, “even in my current state?”

In truth, he’d been about to reach for the gun in her belt. But even if he could shoot her, what then? Unable to walk, he’d just have to lay here -- or crawl away, if he could even manage that -- until her ghost revived her. Unless Fikrul came for him -- but, Uldren realized with a pang, Fikrul was certainly dead. He never would have allowed the Barons’ murderer to get through to Uldren while he lived.

Uldren had gotten Fikrul killed, had slaughtered and ruined his own people, had pillaged and burned and suffered for years and  _ Mara still wasn’t back. _ His crimes had  _ never _ truly brought him any closer to saving his sister, and now they never would. He sagged in the guardian’s hold, wishing she had killed him. Maybe then he would finally see Mara again.

The guardian spun him back around and examined him closely, expressionless as ever, as if he were nothing but a sculpture, scorched and chipped. She raised a hand to his face as if to wipe off the chimera residue sticking to it; he jerked away, face twisted in hatred and disgust, and as she pulled her hand back, for a moment he thought she was going to slap him. But instead she lowered him to the ground -- not exactly gently, but even Uldren had to admit she seemed more clumsy than malicious -- and walked away. The thought that she might just leave him sitting here, bound and immobile, flashed across Uldren’s mind even as she stopped some fifteen feet from him and, her back turned, gestured to her ghost. He watched for long enough to realize that he couldn’t make out any of her conversation -- the ghost projected a small image that he couldn’t quite make out from this angle, but presumed to belong to some Vanguard authority -- and then let his eyes rest. He ought to take this chance to test his bonds and his aching muscles, to seize any opportunity to escape, but he could barely stay upright.

Exhausted, wracked by aftershocks of the agony that had consumed him in the belly of that chimera, too weak to stand, he still felt clearer in thought than he had in ages. A mist had lifted from his eyes -- literally. He glimpsed how dark and twisted his mind had become over the last three years … 

Now what was left of him? What was he supposed to do now? He could just curl up and die, he supposed; that seemed like the most convenient result for everyone. But he’d be damned if he was going to make things easy for Petra or her guardian friends.

He had survived the Kings -- triumphed over them. He had escaped the Prison of Elders. He’d make it through this too. And  _ Mara still needed him _ .


	2. Chapter 2

By the time the guardian returned her attention to Uldren, he’d almost passed out on the cold floor, gradually sliding down from the sitting position she’d left him in to lie on his side. Her heavy footsteps alerted him to her approach in time to open his eyes and make a pathetic attempt to get to his feet or at least sit up -- he’d almost forgotten that his hands were tied, making it rather impossible even if his legs hadn’t painfully locked up as he sat there. The guardian crouched in front of him, pulled him upright by one shoulder, and stuffed her own helmet over his head. With the display deactivated, he found himself completely blind as she dragged him to his feet. At least he could hope that the helmet would muffle the little cries of pain he couldn’t hold in as she forced his body to move and he tried, automatically, to catch himself.

She put an arm around him to take his weight, and they staggered a few awkward steps before she stopped, apparently changing her mind, and heaved him over her shoulders. 

“Put me down!” he hissed, though he wasn’t sure whether she could hear him. He couldn’t muster the breath to speak loudly enough to make it through the helmet.

But apparently the helmet’s comms were on, because her ghost’s voice came in his ear: “Shut up and stop squirming.”

He could feel her struggling to balance him -- she hadn’t even taken a step yet. Should he resist out of principle -- to make this as unpleasant for her as it was for him -- or give in to get it over with as soon as possible? His aching body decided the matter; he went limp.

It was a long walk. Even blind, he sensed them passing through the Darkness of the Ascendant Plane, oily and acrid now in a way he hadn’t felt as he climbed the Watchtower.  _ Because I was more than half-Taken myself, just as much Darkness under my skin as outside it.  _ He’d never really questioned that before -- he’d felt the Darkness consuming him, of course, but he’d told himself it was another necessary evil in Mara’s service.  _ She’d _ told him so. Had that really been Mara? He wasn’t sure anymore; he’d thought not, initially, but now he just didn’t know. He wanted to believe she had been an imposter; otherwise -- had Uldren’s agonizing death in the chimera been part of the plan? He’d said he would die at her whim, but somehow it still hurt.  _ You brave, devoted, pathetic fool. _

If that had been Mara’s plan, the guardian had blundered in and ruined it by killing the chimera -- and saving Uldren’s life. Perhaps that was why all his efforts hadn’t won Mara’s return. 

At one point, the guardian interrupted Uldren’s musings by throwing them both off a ledge. He bit back a cry. Rationally, he knew she hadn’t dragged him this far just to kill them both -- even if she’d walk away from it and he wouldn’t -- but by the time rational thought caught up with him, she’d already broken their fall, letting them float down the last few feet. Despite himself, he let his head sag against her shoulder.  _ Guardians _ . He supposed he ought to be glad she’d decided to spare them the interminable stairs.

They must have reached the base of the tower by now, where Uldren had stationed Fikrul. If he could see, would he catch a glimpse of his most loyal follower’s corpse? He hadn’t really mourned the other Barons -- they’d been means to an end more than anything. But Fikrul had cared about him, suffered for him. And in return Uldren had led him to his death for nothing. Well, he’d have to get in line with all the other people Uldren had killed in vain. But Fikrul could cut in line -- certainly before Cayde-6.

When he heard the engines of her dropship, relief washed through him. Oh, wherever she was taking him wouldn’t be pleasant -- back to the Prison of Elders? No, he doubted the Awoken had reclaimed it from the chaos his Barons had left it in, and besides, Petra had washed her hands of him -- but at least he wouldn’t have to bump along on her shoulders anymore.

She paused for a long moment, then dumped him roughly into a seat, untying his hands as she strapped him in -- the way the restraints pressed him into the seat would have made it untenable to keep his arms behind him -- and then re-tying them in front of him. Still, he reached out with his bound hands, fumbling blindly for anything that might help him. He felt controls in front of him, but they were locked, unresponsive. Had she put him in the pilot’s seat? Why?

The ship bobbed as she climbed in behind him; then he heard the cockpit close, and they were off. It wasn’t just the motion that turned his stomach: somehow the feeling of the small craft flying without his input truly brought home the fact that he was a prisoner yet again. It felt like so long since he’d had any real control over his own life. Well, he doubted the guardians could be any crueler than the Kings.

He didn’t need to see to know when they dropped out of FTL, or where. The Traveler’s Light leapt up hot and bright against his skin, like a thousand pinpricks, much closer than it had ever been in the Reef -- and it had driven him mad from a distance, scraping his mind raw. Less painful now, but it remained overwhelming, battering his senses. Earth: this had to be Earth, so near the Traveler. He’d visited Earth once or twice in his long centuries, but the Light had never been this strong -- he knew it’d grown much brighter in the last year, since the Red Legion’s invasion, though the details of why escaped him. And they were going to keep him here, unable to escape its merciless glare. He had better enjoy this brief interlude of sanity while it lasted.

The ship docked; the cockpit opened, and the guardian climbed out. For a moment Uldren heard low voices -- he couldn’t make out the words. He tried, not for the first time, to release his restraints. They remained locked, and even if they had come off, they would’ve gotten tangled in his bound hands.

As if reading his mind, hands reached for him, untied his wrists, unstrapped him and dragged him out of the cockpit -- more than two hands, strong and sure. They dragged him along upright through what sounded like metal corridors, more footsteps behind them. Where were they? He wished he could see.

His captors searched him, thoroughly and efficiently, finding and removing his concealed knives, which he’d been too weak to reach even before she tied his hands, and his ammunition. More corridors, and finally they dropped him face down onto a barely-padded surface, probably a cot -- his legs hung off the edge. Receding footsteps; a door clanged shut, a heavy bolt clunking into place; and then all was quiet.

For a long moment Uldren simply lay there, slowly mustering the will to move. Finally he rolled over a bit, hitting a wall, and reached up to take off the helmet with clumsy, aching fingers. That done, he glanced over his surroundings: a small, spartan concrete box, furnished only with the cot on which he lay and a partition behind which he could only hope to find a toilet at the least. So this was his new home. It wasn’t worse than the Prison of Elders; certainly it was better than the Kings’ cages. Still, not inspiring. A breathtaking pang of homesickness shot through him; he’d been so close to the Dreaming City, in the Watchtower. And now he could scarcely be further from it.

Dropping the helmet onto the floor, he let his head fall back to the cot. Rest seemed his only option for the moment. Rest, and hoping he would recover his ability to walk in time to avoid soiling himself.

It felt like he’d slept only seconds when the door opened; automatically, he tried to jump to his feet, only to fall disastrously and go sprawling across the floor. Fantastic. The guardian -- the same exo warlock who’d caught him -- grabbed him by the shoulders and manhandled him back onto the cot, then picked up her helmet and offered it to her ghost to transmat away. Uldren would’ve asked what she wanted, but that was clear enough, wasn’t it? He turned away, hoping she would leave without any attempt to gloat or moralize or whatever guardians did to their prisoners.

He heard her moving around the cell, and then water running. Sounded like they’d given him a sink behind that partition; how nice. What was she doing with it? Despite himself, he raised his head to look, just as she came back around holding a wet cloth. She sat down on the edge of the cot, as he tried weakly to push her away, and reached for his face.

“Don’t touch me,” he growled, as she took him by the chin and started rubbing the cloth, not particularly gently, across his skin. He couldn’t help gasping in pain as she scraped against his stinging, bruised flesh. Grabbing her wrist, he tugged ineffectually at her arm. “Leave me be!”

“You have second-degree burns on your face and fingers,” said her ghost, hovering over them. It must have scanned him at some point. Burns from the chimera’s caustic interior: he remembered the agony of it eating away at his exposed skin as it crushed his body and consumed his soul. “They need to be cleaned and treated.”

“Give me that: I’ll do it myself.” He didn’t know if he had the manual dexterity left, really, but he’d say whatever would end her rough attempts. She hesitated, then relinquished the cloth to him, though she didn’t move away. The hard metal of her hip dug into his side on the narrow cot, pinning him against the wall. Unfortunately for Uldren, Cayde’s gun no longer hung in her belt, where he might have grabbed it. Oh, shooting her wouldn’t get him out of this cell -- it would probably just make his situation worse -- but it would certainly lift his spirits. 

As Uldren clumsily sponged his own face, the guardian took supplies from her belt: a small tub of ointment and bandages. Guardians didn’t generally carry medical supplies, with their healing abilities -- not to mention that she didn’t have skin. She must have picked these up specially for him. How kind of her. He abhorred her kindness, her pity. It only emphasized how low he’d fallen, to have to rely on the charity of his enemies.

Speaking of enemies: as Uldren painfully peeled his gloves from his burned hands -- the openings for his fingers had half-melted to his flesh, and he had little choice but to slowly and agonizingly work them off -- the ghost said, “Um, Ikora’s coming.”

The guardian glanced up, optics wide, and shook her head. Uldren was surprised to find them in agreement. He could scarcely face another confrontation now; he’d used up all his eloquence before, when he’d thought he was speaking his last words. But obviously the Vanguard was not about to offer him the courtesy of waiting for him to recover. He imagined the conversation would be rather one-sided anyway: recriminations, threats. If Ikora Rey didn’t just decide to kill him on sight.

“Well,  _ I’m _ not going to tell her no,” the ghost said, to its guardian. “You can try to head her off if you like.”

The guardian looked at Uldren, as if she wanted  _ his _ guidance on the matter. 

“I’m hardly in a state to receive guests,” he said, in his most aristocratic manner, “but I never expect your kind to observe such niceties.”

Nodding as if this were actually helpful input, the guardian stood and left the room. 

By the time the door opened again, Uldren had actually gotten one of his gloves off, finger by painful finger, and was resting a moment before starting on the other. Ikora Rey entered the cell shotgun first. She took one long stride towards Uldren and jammed the gun barrel under his chin with bruising force -- but, he noticed, her finger wasn't on the trigger. 

“Beatrice has convinced me not to kill you right now,” Rey said. “Please,  _ please  _ give me a reason to change my mind.”

Uldren said nothing, because he doubted his ability to keep a civil tongue in his head and therefore to keep that head. Also, the barrel had hit his throat hard enough that he didn't think he could muster the breath to speak. He just coughed, feeling his pulse throb against the cold metal. 

“You really are pathetic,” Rey said, lowering the gun. The exo, who had entered the cell behind her Vanguard, quietly put a hand on the barrel, and Rey let her take the weapon. Excellent. Now Uldren only had to worry about the godlike powers inherent in the warlock Vanguard’s Light-fueled body. Unarmed, injured, and locked in a tiny room with one of the system’s most powerful -- and furious -- living guardians: the fact that this wasn’t the most dangerous or unpleasant situation he’d faced  _ today _ struck Uldren as absurd.

He ought to say something, to prove he wasn’t cowed. The first thing to come to mind was a jab about how pathetic Cayde had looked, lying broken and helpless on the ground, but Uldren wasn’t  _ that _ suicidal. Instead he said, “Forgive me for not helping you justify my murder.”

“What you did to Cayde was murder,” Rey snapped. “This is -- would be -- justice.”

Uldren couldn’t help snorting. Maybe it would be, but there had been no justice in his life for a long time.

He ought to have expected that Rey would not take this reaction well. She grabbed him by the throat, one-handed, lifting him off the cot and slamming him against the wall. He saw stars as his head cracked against the concrete.

“You killed my best friend,” she said slowly, a fraught pause between each word. “A man a thousand times better than you. Do you know why you’re alive?”

Uldren couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. Nor could he stop himself from scrabbling weakly at Rey’s wrist, her fingers, even knowing that he would only hurt his own burned hands.

“You’re alive because we are not  _ like  _ you. We don’t slaughter the helpless. We are  _ guardians _ .” She dropped him back onto the cot and turned to leave.

Crumpled, gasping for air, he forced words through his abused windpipe: “I don’t fear you.”

Looking over her shoulder, Rey chuckled. “I could feel your heartbeat. You do.”

He would have loved to argue, but he couldn’t muster the breath.

The door opened before Rey, and she glanced back at the exo, who hesitated to follow her, looking at Uldren. “Come, Beatrice. Let him rot.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: suicidal ideation, hanging (near the end of the chapter)

Had Petra anticipated to this moment -- informing her Queen of her decision to hand her brother to strangers, his enemies, abdicating all the power over his fate that should have belonged to the Reef and Queen -- she would've shot Uldren on the floor of the Watchtower, whatever the guardian thought. Petra had told the Paladins and the techeuns that Uldren was dead, but surely Mara Sov would hear the lie in her voice if she even had the temerity to try it. 

“You brought the guardian.” The Queen’s voice somehow sounded even more commanding through the Oracle Engine.

“Yes, forgive me, Your Grace, but I have news.” Petra didn’t know if she was asking forgiveness for the news she was about to impart or for bringing a guardian here. Both, probably. “Your brother, Prince Uldren -- ”

“He lives?”

Petra almost imagined the barest measure of surprise in the Queen’s voice. No: Mara sounded perfectly calm and collected, as always. Petra glanced at the guardian, who nodded slightly. “Yes. He’s … in custody.”

Cowardice, not to tell the Queen  _ whose _ custody that was, but if she didn’t ask … Petra forged on with a pathetic hope that she might forestall further questions: “He -- his soul was corrupted by the Taken. He suffered from delusions, which I now believe were caused by -- ”

The guardian looked at Petra, head tilted at an almost questioning angle, though Petra could never read that motionless faceplate.

“Riven,” the Queen said. The angle of the guardian’s head became steeper, even more inquisitive. She would have no idea who Riven was, of course, the Ahamkara’s existence being one of the Awoken’s many secrets.

The Queen had nothing further to say about her brother, rather to Petra’s relief. After she signed off, the guardian’s ghost appeared and turned to Petra. “You were right!”

“Yes. Mara Sov, Queen of the Awoken,  _ lives _ .” Petra didn’t care that the guardian could hear how desperate she’d been for that knowledge.

“Who is Riven? And the others -- Shuro Chi, Sedia?”

“Shuro Chi, Sedia, and Kalli are among the Queen’s techeuns, or they were. Riven … You’ll see.” Petra smiled at the guardian. Now was a time for rejoicing, not dwelling on the problems that lay ahead. Mara was alive, the Dreaming City was open: the rest could wait. “I think you’ll like the Dreaming City, guardian. I’ll see you there.”

“Wait -- ” the ghost began, but by the next word, Petra was already gone.

*

“Who is Riven?” the ghost asked.

Uldren looked up, startled out of his attempt to ignore his captors. It had been six days since his imprisonment began, according to the marks he’d scratched in the wall. He kept time by the trays of food slid through a slot in the door and by the lights turning on and off without his input, without warning, a day/night cycle that often felt arbitrary and capricious. The cell had no window, nor did any light come in around the edges of the door. When the lights were off, he lay in almost total darkness, with only the bioluminescence of his own skin and eyes -- but Awoken saw well in the dark, so that was enough.

The first couple days were easy: he spent them mostly unconscious, recovering from his injuries. He could hobble around the cell soon enough, leaning on the wall for support -- it wasn’t as if its dimensions gave him any distances to walk. The partition hid a tiny shower stall as well as a toilet and sink, a development he’d regarded as positive until he realized it meant they didn’t even have to remove him from the cell for hygiene purposes. When a set of clean clothes -- grey, plain, cheap -- came through the slot with a meal, he knew they really did mean to let him rot here. Still, he put them on eventually, because his armor was starting to stink. He stacked it neatly under the cot, telling himself he’d have a use for it again someday. He would not spend the rest of his life in this cell, whatever Ikora Rey thought.

Then things had gotten hard. He could only occupy so much of the day treating his wounds and fiddling with his armor; the hours stretched on unbearably. In the Prison of Elders he’d had Variks’ visits and the image of Mara; the Kings’ beatings and abuse had at least kept him from getting bored. Now he sat for long stretches between meals and sleep -- both of which he soon made last as long as possible -- and had nothing for company but his own thoughts, a torment. He reviewed and relived the last three years, trying to see where he had gone wrong; all too often, the answer seemed to be “everywhere.” He flinched away from the memories of things he had done in the name of Mara’s return, rendered unspeakable by their failure to bring about that return. All he could do was dwell on his failure. His feet ached from pacing, once he could walk well enough.

When the door opened on the sixth day, he lunged for it, only to collide with the exo’s unyielding body. He might as well have tackled a steel post. She grabbed him and shoved him back onto the cot as the door closed behind her, sealing in his frantic need to leave, to see at least a  _ different _ set of blank concrete walls. It felt like something died inside him then; he sat down heavily on the cot and forced out, “What do you want?”

“We came to visit you,” said the ghost, sounding almost as doubtful about the prospect as Uldren felt. “We thought you could use some company.”

He hated that it was right, so he lied: “No. Leave me.”

The exo shook her head and conjured herself a chair, a construct of Light solid enough for her to sit on, so at least she wouldn’t try to squeeze onto the cot with him again. The ghost said, “Also, we have questions.”

Of course they did. Was that why they’d really kept him alive -- not out of charity but to squeeze the Awoken’s many secrets out of him? Well, he could at least frustrate them there. “I have nothing to say to you.”

But their first question was about Riven, and he couldn’t help himself: “Where did you hear that name?”

He already knew: Petra. Of course she’d start handing over secrets just as readily as she’d handed over Uldren himself. The Queen’s Wrath -- what a joke. Petra served no one but the guardians now.

Then the ghost said, “Your sister,” and Uldren’s mind and body both jolted as if Arc-struck. He was standing before he knew it, bringing the guardian to her feet as well.

“She’s  _ alive _ ,” he breathed, staring past the exo as if she wasn’t even there, as if he could glimpse Mara somewhere behind her. Of course, he’d always insisted that Mara was alive -- but having someone else confirm it was different. “She spoke to you?”

_ And not to me.  _ That stung, knowing that at the moment Mara’s voice finally returned to her people, he’d been sitting here, locked away and ignored. Left to rot. That she’d spoken to a guardian, to his tormentor, before gracing him with her presence.

“To Petra, mostly,” the ghost said, and that was almost worse. Uldren looked away, sitting back down on the cot. He wanted to ask if Mara had mentioned him, but he knew how pathetic that question would sound.

Petra. Good, obedient Petra, who had never doubted and never strayed and never felt  _ anything _ . For a miserable moment Uldren wished he had killed her when he had the chance, back in Thieves’ Landing. Oh, it would just be another awful act to weigh on his conscience -- possibly the heaviest of them all -- but at least he wouldn’t have to feel this horrible spike of envy. At least he wouldn’t have Petra’s impeccable benchmark to compare himself to. And at least Petra wouldn’t be there opening the Reef to guardians.

“She said Riven was responsible for your … delusions,” said the ghost. Uldren raised his head again. Who had said that, Mara or Petra? Did it matter? The explanation fit; suddenly he could hear Riven’s saccharine voice behind Mara’s face as she petted and preened and doted on him. Of course it hadn’t been Mara. Mara never would have coddled him like that, telling him how brave he was, how selfless, how perfectly sacrificial.  _ Because you love. O brother mine.  _ How could he not have known?

It raised his spirits, for a moment, to have some outside force to blame for his fall; they dropped again as he considered just how easy he’d made it for Riven. He’d been so desperate to hear from Mara, any Mara; he’d practically begged her to use him, to consume him. He’d  _ wished _ for it. A fool could have seen through Riven’s ruse -- Petra had seen through it, secondhand -- but not Uldren, always the perfect pawn.

_ Why didn’t Petra tell me? _ Or had she tried to tell him, and he’d rejected her? He knew he wouldn’t have listened. Maybe she had tried, and he’d dismissed the idea so thoroughly that he didn’t even recall the conversation. His memories of his time in the Prison of Elders were vague in places, fractured and dark -- the entire past three years were patchy in his mind, twisted and full of pain.

“What happened to you?” the ghost said, callously curious. Uldren looked up to find the guardian staring at him, expressionless as ever.

His lip curled. “Nothing you would find entertaining, I fear.”

“We didn’t come here for entertainment.”

“Right. You wanted information.” Uldren let his head fall back against the wall. “You’ll learn nothing from me. Ask Petra.”

“We did,” the ghost said, sounding a bit frustrated. “She only said we’d find out about Riven soon.”

“Then you’ll have to learn a little patience.” But Uldren straightened: there was something  _ he _ wanted to know. “What else did my sister say?”

The ghost thought about it for a second, shell shifting. It was being remarkably free with information, but then Uldren supposed there was no point in keeping secrets from a man trapped in a cell, who could no more spread the truth than use it himself. Still, it felt strange; secrecy came automatically to Uldren, as to his sister, and the Awoken as a whole.

“She told Petra to put a team together to kill ‘that creature,’” the ghost said. “Riven, I believe.”

Uldren’s fists clenched. “I should be on that team.”

He could only dream of the satisfaction he’d find in shooting Riven repeatedly in the face. He should have crushed her underfoot when he had the chance, back when she’d still been the size of his hand. If he had, there would be no Dreaming City -- but he also wouldn’t be sitting in this cell right now.

Uldren had spoken without considering his audience: the ghost only laughed at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not going anywhere.”

No, he wasn’t going anywhere. Uldren’s hands fell open, despair rising in his chest. Even if the guardians had been willing to release him, he was in no shape to take on an Ahamkara, physically or mentally. For a moment he’d let himself think as if he were a free man, free and whole, as if he had any control over his own life. A mistake; it only threw his situation -- trapped, broken,  _ rotting  _ \-- into further, agonizing contrast.

“Is that all my sister said?” He managed to keep his voice even, though he sounded exhausted even to himself.

“Oh, and she’s opening the Dreaming City to guardians,” the ghost said, casually, as if this was not momentous, horrible news. “To clear out the Taken, I guess.”

Letting guardians into the Dreaming City -- Uldren’s gorge rose. He couldn’t say which was the more appalling invasion. At least the Taken didn’t claim to be  _ helping  _ while spreading their influence, their corruption, anywhere it would stick. Could the Awoken keep nothing sacred? Nothing of themselves?

No, and he was the one who’d brought them to that point, with his raids and slaughters, unleashing the Kings and then the Scorn on the Reef. Uldren closed his eyes, face twisted with bitterness and guilt. He’d ravaged his own home, his own people, destroyed everything he’d ever built, and for what? A pack of lies. And in doing so, he’d driven the Awoken right into the guardians’ arms. There truly was no salvaging them.

And Mara was the one who’d given the fatal order, because he’d left her no choice. Because she didn’t need him, or the Awoken, anymore; because they were broken, useless -- damaged tools to be discarded. Hadn’t he told Illyn that he and the Awoken would happily die when Mara had no further use for them? And yet here he was, alive, unwanted, alone. Certainly, regrettably not happily dead.

Maybe he could still hang himself from the showerhead. His jailers probably wouldn’t stop him; unless there was a camera in the cell -- he’d looked and hadn’t found one -- they wouldn’t even notice. Not until he stopped taking his meals, anyway.

“Are you all right?” the ghost asked, breaking into Uldren’s thoughts. As if it cared. As if it mattered.

“I can’t imagine why you would think otherwise,” Uldren said, sarcastic. Then, with a princely air of dismissal that aped the authority he’d once held: “Leave me.”

The ghost looked at its guardian, who didn’t move for a long moment, just held Uldren’s eyes, as if to demonstrate that she didn’t obey him. He didn’t look away. Childish, perhaps, but if he had nothing to win but staring contests … 

Finally the guardian’s eyes shifted away from him. She shrugged, the Light-chair vanishing as she stood. When the door opened to let her out, Uldren had to force himself not to make a futile attempt at escape, and then when it closed he regretted not making it anyway. After all, he had no activities left that  _ weren’t  _ futile. He could struggle in whatever pointless way he could, or he could just lay down and die.

Well, stand up and die, if he had to hang himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: suicidal ideation, including some pretty heavy imagery at the beginning of the chapter. If you want to skip the worst of it, pick up from "But he still thought about it a lot".

Uldren hadn’t killed himself by the time the guardian returned again, four days later, but his preparations for doing so were coming along nicely. It wasn’t as if he had anything else to do, after all. Trying to figure out how to turn his limited resources deadly kept him better occupied than simply staring at the wall and thinking about his mistakes. He told himself that even if he hadn’t really decided yet whether to go through with it, he’d like to have it set up.

He figured he could use the elastic from the waistband of his pants to strangle himself. Usually his jailers gave him new clothes at breakfast every other day and collected the old at lunch; when he held back a pair of pants, they asked him for them, expressed annoyance, but didn’t enter the cell to take them. (He wondered if they didn’t realize what use he could put them to, or if they just didn’t care what he did to himself.) It took him a while to tear the elastic out, trying to find a sharp edge on the cot or the partition or his folded armor. He considered using his teeth. But the fabric was cheap and flimsy, and soon enough he had a loop of elastic. Hanging himself from the shower head probably wouldn’t work; he worried that either the elastic or the fixture itself would break under his weight. But he knew a few knots that would only tighten against resistance. He could simply tie it around his neck and pull on it until he couldn’t breathe. After that, it wouldn’t take long.

He hadn’t done it yet. The truth was, a large part of him wanted to live; he just didn’t want to live  _ like this _ . He wanted to see the Dreaming City again, to see Mara again. That wasn’t going to happen, but he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling … It certainly would never happen if he killed himself. Perhaps Mara would send for him after all.

The question bubbled up: how long was he supposed to sit here on the off chance that she still wanted him? And he answered,  _ At least a little longer _ . He had said he would do anything for her. That included waiting, suffering, enduring. As long as it took. Or, at the very least, as long as he could stand -- as long as he could stay sane.

He didn’t know if that determination would last, but for now, he put the elastic -- and the torn pair of pants; he didn’t want to give them back to his jailers, in case they started to think about why he’d taken the elastic -- under his armor. So he didn’t have to sit there staring at it anymore.

But he still thought about it a lot, until finally the universe gave him something else to think about, in the form of the guardian walking into his cell with a paper bag of takeout in her hand. Again he tried to get out when the door opened; again she shoved him back, one-handed this time, as if the attempt were beneath her notice. He hated her. “Why are you here?”

“We brought you some leftovers,” her ghost said, as she pushed the takeout at him. He didn’t take it.

“I don’t want your scraps.” Though his mouth watered at the smell. The food his jailers served wasn’t terrible -- certainly better than the Kings’ slop, with the added bonus of not being tossed on the filthy floor for him to scramble after while the Eliksni laughed -- but it wasn’t good, either.

The guardian shrugged and put the bag on the cot before pulling out her Light-chair again. She sat back, apparently quite comfortable, and looked at Uldren for a long moment. What did she see? He could only imagine how haggard he might look; the cell didn’t have a mirror.

“Is Riven dead yet?” he asked, both to break the silence and because he wanted to know.

She shook her head, and the ghost said, “No. They’re still getting a team together.”

_ They _ , not  _ we _ . “You’re not part of it?”

Another head shake, but again, it was the ghost who spoke, not the guardian. Uldren was starting to wonder about that -- he couldn’t recall ever actually hearing her speak. “There are better people for the job. We don’t really work well with others.”

“Shocking,” Uldren sniped. Of course, he had no real insight into her teamwork abilities, but guardians were prone to be self-centered glory-hogs, and he’d taken any chance to put her down.

Both guardian and ghost ignored this. Instead, the ghost said, “But you could have told us there was an  _ Ahamkara _ in the Dreaming City.”

“I will not hand you any of the Awoken’s secrets,” Uldren said. Sneering, he added, “Isn’t that Petra’s calling?”

The ghost sighed, the sound crackling with its voice’s digitized quality. “You really are not a very pleasant person to talk to.”

“Not for  _ you _ .”

“Is there anyone you actually want to talk to?”

“My sister.”

Another ghost sigh. "She's not exactly easy to reach, but we'll tell her, if we get to talk to her again."

Uldren didn't really believe it: he doubted Mara would deign to speak to a guardian again, and he doubted the guardian would bother to mention him. Even if she did, he could only imagine how she might describe the situation:  _ Your pathetic, hopeless brother is begging for your attention again. _ "I won't hold my breath."

Except, thinking of the elastic hidden under the pile of armor on the floor, he might …

“Oh, we brought you something else,” the ghost said, oblivious to Uldren’s dark thoughts. It hovered over to the cot to transmat two books into existence, one larger and thicker than the other. Uldren picked them up. The larger one was a history of Earth's Dark Ages and their Warlords; the smaller, a cheap-looking adventure novel claiming to relate “a saga of love and danger across the stars,” the cover emblazoned with a heroic titan holding aloft a Void shield.

“Guardian propaganda,” Uldren growled.

“Hey, we just thought you might be bored in here, but if you don’t want them …” The ghost’s eye lit up again, ready to transmat the books away.

Uldren barely kept himself from jerking them away: he didn’t want them to see how desperate he was for something, anything to do besides stare at the wall and suffer his own regrets. “I’ll take them.”

However bad the books were, they might actually save his life. He hated that -- the fact that she could at a whim salvage or sink his mood for days. She was his only real contact with the outside world; as much as he despised the idea, he had little choice but to hang on her every word. Or, rather, her ghost’s every word, because the guardian herself wouldn’t even talk to him.

It had to bring her such satisfaction, to have so much power over him, to see him brought so low. Of course she hadn't killed him; this way, she could come and bask in his misery whenever she wanted, whenever her grief for Cayde spiked. And he had to  _ hope _ for those visits, because they might keep him sane a little longer. 

"Are you going to eat that?" the ghost said, looking at the bag of still-warm takeout. "It's really good, or so I'm told."

Uldren picked up the bag. It did smell good; his pride wrestled with his stomach. It occurred to him that he might as well take any pleasure he could, but no: he would not grovel for scraps like a dog. He shoved the bag back at her. “I don’t want it.”

The ghost sighed, as its guardian took the bag and stood up. “Fine. Enjoy your books.”

This time, Uldren lunged for the door when it opened, but the guardian didn’t even have to look at him to push him back and close it in his face.

*

The guardian was back again. Good.

“You have my brother,” Mara said.

“Yes,” the ghost said, though it sounded hesitant, unwilling to admit the truth. Its guardian never spoke, hardly moved, just stared at Mara with glowing green eyes. A lesser woman might have found this unsettling. Mara found it rather pathetic. Was she truly so steered by her ghost -- her Traveler -- that she had no opinions to offer? What a sad way to live, obedient and unquestioning. Or perhaps she was intimidated by Mara, afraid of making a fool of herself in the Queen’s presence. It would not be the first time. "He wants to talk to you."

Of course he did. “You will allow one of my techeuns to examine him.”

“Will we?” said the ghost, petulant, but the guardian herself nodded, so Mara disregarded her toy.

A moment’s silence. Mara turned away slightly, a dismissal that any of her Awoken would have understood. The guardian ignored it. Her eyes remained on Mara, as if waiting -- almost demanding -- for her to say something else. No, it wasn’t fear that kept her silent. Perhaps  _ she _ was trying to intimidate  _ Mara _ . A hilariously futile effort.

“What are you looking for?” the ghost said. “With Uldren, I mean. What do you expect to learn?”

Mara had no intention of laying out her thoughts. Instead she said, “Under what authority do you hold my brother? The Last City has no jurisdiction over the Reef.”

“He killed a guardian,” the ghost said. “Our friend. Our Vanguard.”

“I’m sure you miss it,” Mara said, dismissive. “As we miss the Awoken he killed. Our claims on him outnumber yours.”

“He has to face justice.”

Mara looked at the guardian, allowing the slightest note of contempt to rise to her face. “You suggest the Reef holds none?”

“For its Prince? Your brother? We can’t watch him go free.”

Mara’s lip curled. Possibly the ghost did not realize the severity of the insult it had offered her, suggesting that she would be so partial -- so weak -- as to let their shared blood obscure Uldren’s crimes. “You frustrated the Reef’s justice yourself when you prevented my Wrath from killing him.”

“And that’s what you wanted to happen? You want him to die?” the ghost said, incredulous.

No. It wasn’t, and she didn’t. “We spoke of justice, not desires.”

This time the silence was long. The ghost’s shell shifted; it seemed to consider Mara’s words, as did its guardian, her head tilted slightly. Mara tired of their regard. She had so many greater tasks ahead of her than deciding Uldren’s fate. Nothing could be allowed to draw her from her current path; letting herself fully feel for him would only make it harder to do what had to be done. Better to put Uldren behind her, no matter how much it hurt to be so cold -- she’d long since grown accustomed to such pain.

She’d always known he would lose himself trying to follow her. She’d always known she would lose him. There was only one more thing she could do for him.

“My techeuns will evaluate whether his will was then, and is now, his own.” Her word passed down, Mara turned and walked to her throne, an even clearer dismissal. This time, the guardian took the hint.

*

Petra didn’t know what to say to Jolyon, so she started with, “Mind if I join you?”

He looked up from his rifle’s scope. When he responded, after a long moment, it was only with a shrug. Well, she’d better take what she could get.

She planted her own rifle in the sand beside his, and for an even longer time, they simply made their shots. Bringing a rifle had been a good idea. This way, Petra didn’t have to look at Jolyon when she finally spoke: “About -- ”

“Don’t,” Jolyon said. He let out a long sigh. “Don’t. It doesn’t matter. He’s dead. He was dead long before you shot him.” A beat. “Or if you didn’t, you helped that guardian do it.”

“Jolyon,” Petra began.

She saw movement in the corner of her eye: without taking his eye from the scope, he held up a hand. “I’m not interested in your secrets.” Then, a breath: “Please.”

If Jolyon didn’t want Petra’s secrets, then, well, she ought to listen to him. It was probably a mercy not to tell him. Best for both of them, best for everyone. Let him grieve, let him heal; don’t keep aggravating the wound. But she kept thinking of what Jolyon might say if he ever found out the truth, if he knew Petra hadn’t told him. What Uldren might say, if he knew she’d let Jolyon believe he was dead.

It shouldn’t have mattered. Jolyon would never find out the truth -- Uldren would spend the rest of his miserable life rotting in guardian custody, if they hadn’t just shot him on arrival -- and nothing Uldren could possibly say mattered anymore.

“He’s not dead,” Petra said at last.

Jolyon didn’t twitch. Instead, Petra glanced over to see that he had gone perfectly still, wooden. She wasn’t sure he was breathing.

“If you tell anyone, I’ll deny it,” she added. She already regretted speaking up, more for Jolyon’s sake than for her own. “Only the Queen knows.”

“The Prison of Elders?” Jolyon asked, softly.

“No. The guardians.”

Now Jolyon looked up. “They’ll kill him.”

Petra shrugged. “I would have killed him already. The guardian stopped me.”

After a long moment’s consideration, Jolyon let out a hollow, broken little laugh. “What do you expect me to do with this information, Petra?”

“I don’t know. I just thought … ”

“I told you to keep your secrets.” Jolyon got up abruptly, or as abruptly as one could get up from lying belly-down, encumbered with a long rifle. “You shouldn’t have told me.”

“I know,” Petra said, also starting to her feet, though at a more reasonable pace. “I’m sorry.”

“Stay.” Jolyon slung his rifle over his back and turned away. “One of us ought to keep shooting. And, no offense, but I don’t want to look at you right now.”

“All right,” Petra said, settling back in. Then, again, as he walked away: “I’m sorry.”

*

The truth was, Jolyon didn’t know how to even think about this without shooting something. So he found another spot to set up, away from Petra. Until he put his eye to the scope, he didn’t think at all.

The smart thing to do would be to forget what Petra had said. The Uldren he knew was dead. The madman, the murderer -- Jol didn’t know him anymore than he knew Jol. The real Uldren, his Uldren, had died in the Battle of Saturn. With his sister.

_ Fire. _

They hadn’t been close in a while, really. Not since the Garden. A gulf had opened between them, between Uldren’s fascination and Jolyon’s horror. Some part of Uldren -- of Jolyon too -- had never made it out of the Garden. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that something had taken root in Uldren there. In his memory, Jolyon saw seeds in Cabal flesh clear as day. His stomach still turned at the thought.

_ Fire _ .

Jolyon knew he couldn’t have saved Uldren -- not from the Garden, not from himself. That didn’t stop him from feeling like he should have tried harder.

_ Fire _ .

Chances were the guardians had already executed Uldren. Just because their vengeful hero had choked at the last minute didn’t mean the rest of them would. They had probably fought over the privilege like dogs at a bone.

_ Fire _ .

At least in the Prison of Elders Uldren had been in the custody of people who cared about him, who cared about the man he used to be. He and Petra had been friends once. The guardians would look at him and see nothing but an enemy -- a madman and a murderer.

_ Fire _ . Magazine empty. Time to reload.

He was dead. Whatever the guardians had, whether they’d shot him or not, was little more than a corpse, even if it was still breathing.

_ Fire _ .

Petra had given up on him; she would have killed him herself. The Queen couldn’t or wouldn’t set aside her plans long enough to help him. There was no one left who gave a damn about Uldren, who might actually speak up for him.

_ Fire. _

No one but Jol.

_ Fire _ .

No. Uldren was dead. Getting involved again would just rub salt in the wound, keep it from ever healing.

_ Fire. _

He didn’t recognize Jol. Probably didn’t even remember him. There was nothing left of the man Jol had known, the man he’d once called his brother.

_ Fire. _

How long was he going to let Uldren haunt him?

_ Click _ . Jol hadn’t noticed the empty magazine. He reloaded with more force than strictly necessary.  _ Fire _ .

Oh, damn it. Damn it. Fine. Maybe this time when he saw Uldren look at him like a stranger, it would finally drive home the point that his friend was gone.

Setting his rifle aside, Jolyon pulled up his comms and dialed Petra. “Hey, can you give me that guardian’s feed?”


End file.
